one big blonde joke (ecstace) wrote in 100songs,
one big blonde joke
ecstace
100songs

Gregory House. 097 - Writer's Choice

Title: So Bad and So Good
Fandom: House, M.D.
Characters: Gregory House, James Wilson, Lisa Cuddy, Allison Cameron
Prompt: 097 - Writer's Choice (Table 1)
Word Count: 2,655
Rating: PG-13 for nongraphic sex/drug use.
Warnings/Spoilers: Disclaimer: House et. al is property of Fox.
Summary: House without his Vicodin is a House in pain. House without his Wilson is, well...something else entirely.


Three months.

It had been three months since Wilson left for some uppity new hospital out in California that House hadn't even bothered to learn the name of. Three months of mind-numbing boredom.

Actually, House amended to himself, it had been three months, two weeks, and four days.

Not that he was keeping track or anything...

Flashback

House entered his office at the beginning of the day, only to find that Wilson was there waiting for him. His ducklings were milling around the conference room, he also noticed, hobbling over to his desk with his bag.

Catching sight of Wilson's especially grim face, he held up his hands before the other had a chance to say anything. "Wait, don't tell me yet. Is this going to be a long story? Because I really need some coffee," he continued as he began making his way into the conference room.

Wilson was shaking his head at him, frowning. "House," he said, his tone almost pleading. House stopped, turned around, quirking an eyebrow for him to speak fast. His caffeine was waiting. Wilson sighed. "House, I really don't know how to tell you this..." he ran his hand through his hair. Then raising his brown eyes to House's blue ones, he blurted, "I'm leaving. There's this hospital out in California, brand new, and they want me to head up their Oncology department. I couldn't very well say no, and Cuddy agrees with me. She's been interviewing for weeks to find a replacement..." he finally stopped as it became apparent House wasn't going to respond to what he'd said. House hadn't even heard anything after the words 'I'm leaving'. As Wilson stopped speaking, he looked down and to the side, both his hands resting on his cane. Then without a word, he turned and swiftly exited the office, the glass door swishing shut behind him. He could feel Wilson's tortured gaze following him out, but he kept on going. He made his way blindly down the corridor, not paying any attention to where he was or in what direction he was headed.

It was lunchtime before he showed up again, acting as though nothing had happened; Gregory House was almost as brilliant an actor as he was a diagnostician.

A week after that disastrous conversation, Wilson managed to corner House in his office again, this time as he was getting ready to leave for the day.

House looked up as Wilson entered, then back down at his desk to what he'd been doing.

"Here to assuage your guilty conscience?" he asked snidely, without looking up. "There's really no need, I'm fine.

Wilson put his hands on his hips. "Fine. Really? Because I have five complaints from five different nurses, and a Vicodin perscription which was filled ten days early that say otherwise."

House rolled his eyes. "My leg hurts, or did you think the cane and the limp were just for effect?" He waved his hand in Wilson's general direction. "Sides, everyone knows how sensitive nurses are, you really can't take anything they say too seriously."

Wilson just stood there, his expression clearly not amused, and House could swear he actually heard the concern oozing from those pitiful brown eyes.

House rolled his head back, shifting to the side in agitation. "I'm fine!" he snapped. "So stop looking at me like a hurt puppy. Go to California, have fun. Meet lots of famous people and all that."

Wilson grinned at him, shaking his head slightly at his friend's insanity. Sufficiently reassured about his friend's mental state, he got up to leave.

"Hey, Wilson."

Wilson paused and turned back around.

House's lips quirked upwards. "If you happen to meet Jessica Simpson, get her autograph for me, will ya?" he said, a tad gruffly.

Wilson looked down, smiling. "I can't make you any promises, but I'll do my best," he responded seriously.

House nodded once, then looked to the side and back down at his desk, a signal this conversation was at an end. Wilson tugged the glass door open and headed down the corridor. House watched him go, his expression unreadable.


End Flashback

You can drive you can drive you can drive
Down the 405
To the 101 to my house
And these highways are in so many songs
I couldn't count them all
I tried
So much sad history described in a ride
And when i told you I was happy I lied
I lied I lied I lied...


House entered his apartment after a long day at work, feeling tired and irritable. He wasn't particularly hungry, so he flopped himself down on the couch and started idly flipping through channels. Flicking the TV off in frustration when nothing captured his interest, he sat back, rolling his shoulders as he attempted to work out the knots there. What he really needed was a massage, he couldn't focus on work or anything else with his body all tense the way it was.

He picked up the phone and dialled a number by heart. He laid his head on the back of the couch and closed his eyes as he waited for the doorbell to ring.

When it did, he was there waiting.

The sex was fantastic, wild and completely animalistic and also some of the best House had had in a long while (he made a mental note to request this particular girl more often). It was just what he'd needed to take the edge off. Then a tiny (but incredibly annoying) part of his brain clicked on for no reason, a part that remembered what sex with Stacy had been like. House had all but forgotten what it was like to have sex with someone he actually gave a damn about. He growled, pushing such blasphemy to the back of his mind as he pounded even harder into the exquisite creature under him, which earned him an appreciative moan for his efforts. A few more thrusts, and his orgasm ripped through him. He threw back his head, a sound halfway between a scream and a groan coming from his throat. House collapsed on his side, breathless and sweaty, feeling distinctly wet-noodleish. Closing his eyes to give him a chance to catch his breath, he rolled over onto his side. A few moments later and he felt the bed shift as the girl got up, soft rustlings telling him she was gathering her things. Next he heard the soft click of the door as she exited the apartment.

He stayed where he was a moment, finally reaching for the pill bottle on his nightstand and dry-swallowing two Vicodin. The little white pills washed through his system with a warm, crackling feeling. Combined with a heady afterglow, the effect was something akin to a blaze which was burning him from the inside out.

He lay there as the flames licked at him pleasantly and idly wondered why he was still in so much pain.

And I've got Vicodin do you wanna come over?
I know it's a long drive from Malibu
I got a pocket full of pills and not one lover
And I'm feeling so bad and so good
I don't know what to do...


The case they were currently working on now was a challenging one, which meant that House was in his element. This particular day, he'd arrived so early that the only other person there was Cameron. He set his bag down on the chair in his office, then headed straight for the coffee pot. He had his coffee cup in hand, and was just about to add the sugar, when he heard it - a small cough coming from behind him. He turned around with a fake start of surprise. "Doctor Cameron! When did you get here? You shouldn't sneak up like that on people with hot beverages in their hands. Things could get ugly."

She looked at him askance a moment, before handing him a folder. "This is the patient's latest blood work," she informed him. "The CT and tox screen were clean, there's nothing there that could explain the symptoms."

House browsed through the folder as she spoke. He nodded, snapping the folder shut. "So we'll have to look somewhere else. Ultrasound the boy's kidneys and liver. And get an LP," he fired off. Cameron gave him a small smile before turning away, when he stopped her. "Cameron." She turned back, her expression polite but quizzical as she waited for him to continue. "You've um. You've lost people, right? Your husband died, and that's not the same as say, if he moved away, but you still lost him, right?" he asked, his question coming out much more awkwardly than he was used to speaking. Cameron's smile vanished, her piercing green-blue eyes scanning his face. "Doctor House, is this about Doctor Wilson?" she asked tentatively. "Because you know that this is a wonderful opportunity for him, it wouldn't be right for him to stay here, just for you," she continued, her gaze searching his intently.

House averted his eyes, already shaking his head. "Forget it, okay?" he said angrily. "Just..forget it. Go run those tests." Cameron stood there, her hesitation evident. He raised his voice. "Now!" he snapped, before she had a chance to say anything else. Cameron's mouth snapped shut, and she scurried off.

House watched her leave angrily, before turning on his heel and going through the glass doors into his office. Sitting down at his desk, he was still for a moment when suddenly he banged his fist down on the desktop. He rested his forehead on the top of his fist and massaged it back and forth.

Later that afternoon, House was leaning over the railing of the balcony outside his office as his restless gaze scanned the panorama in front of him. He reached in his pocket, pulling out the small orange bottle and dry-swallowing two pills. He allowed them to slowly wash through his consciousness; but even then his gaze studiously avoided the balcony to his left.

And I'll take my chances now
Cause I can't go back, I'm out too far
And I'm thinking I'm thinking
I'm thinking that you know how it feels
So get in your car and drive
And I can tell you that I'll try
I'll try I'll try I'll try


Wilson had been at his new job almost five months now, and he was enjoying himself immensely. He was loving the opportunity to work with new people and learn new things, but he still felt...out of place. Uncomfortable. Sure, he'd met some great people, but he was still the Outsider to everyone. The New Kid. Just then, his phone vibrated and interrupted his thought process as he was heading out to his car at the end of the day. Fishing it out of his pocket, he said, "Hello?"

"Hey, Wilson! Hey, it's Wilson, everybody! Say hi, everyone!" House's voice was loud and raccous, and the chorus of 'Hi, Wilsons!' that echoed was equally so.

Wilson grimaced. "House, where are you? Are you drunk?"

House squinted, trying to remember how many drinks he'd had. "Naah, I only had thix," he hiccuped, then giggled. "My new friends are nice, very nice, they bought me lots of.." he trailed off, trying to remember the word. "Alcohol!" he finally proclaimed, a note of triumph in his voice.

"What new friends, House? And where are you?"

"I don't remember their names, but their names don't matter because tomorrow they're not going to be my friends," House's tone was petulant.

"And why's that? Don't tell me you still can't hold you liquor?"

"No." And suddenly House sounded much less drunk. "Because they aren't you."

"Not me?" Wilson repeated, stunned. "House, what..?" But the dialtone interrupted him, informing him that House had hung up. He sighed, making a mental note to get a hold of his former boss, Lisa Cuddy, the next day.

Wilson was worried about House; he had a sneaking suspicion that worry was actually written into the job description. He had come to realise since he had moved out to California that, like it or not, he was something of an an anchor in House's life. Wilson's greatest fear was that without that anchor, his brilliant but entirely broken friend might just go drifting out to sea.

And I've got Vicodin do you wanna come over?
I know it's a long drive from Malibu
I got a pocket full of pills and not one lover
And I'm feeling so bad and so good
I don't know what to do...


It was the next afternoon when Wilson's phone buzzed insistently from his briefcase. "Hello?" he answered.

"James?" Lisa Cuddy's voice came over the line, and even though she was on the other side of the country, he could still feel the tension and nervousness in her speech.

"Lisa? What's going on?"

He heard her sigh. "James, I thought you should know...House didn't show up for work this morning. One of his team went to check on him, and they found him in his apartment. He was unconscious. They brought him in here, and initial tests show traces of LSD, marijuana, and his blood alcohol level was nearly two percent. He's in surgery right now, and in pretty bad shape." She paused a moment. "I think you should come out here, I think he needs you," she continued, her tone much softer.

Wilson's cursed violently once she'd finished speaking, very quickly apologising when Cuddy squawked a protest. He sighed (mentally berating himself the whole time) as he haltlingly described the phone call he'd gotten from House the previous day. After promising Cuddy he'd be on the next plane to New Jersey, he bade her goodbye and hung up the phone. Making a split second decision, he switched lanes as he dialed his secretary, telling her to use whatever methods necessary to clear his schedule for the next week. As he drove the forty-five minutes to the airport, he couldn't help smiling despite the seriousness of the situation.

He was going home.

It's in your face
I know that place you're running to
I'll follow you
I'll meet you there
Don't bring a thing for me
I'll take care I'll take care


When Wilson entered House's stark white hospital room thirty hours later, it was to find the diagnostician leaning against a stack of pillows, his complexion ashen and exhaustion written upon every feature. Nevertheless, his lips twisted into a sardonic grin as Wilson entered the room. "You look like hell," House informed him, his tone matter-of-fact.

Wilson grinned. "Funny, I thought that was supposed to be my line."

House looked up at the ceiling. "Yeah, well, I've done this play before. I know all the lines," he replied, his tone neutral.

Wilson sighed. "House.."

"Hey, I'm feeling pretty tired, maybe we should catch up later," House interrupted, faking a huge yawn.

Wilson gave him a pointed look, but nodded. "Sure thing. I'm not going anywhere." House smirked, the only indication he'd gotten Wilson's point.

Two days later, House was ready to be discharged, and Wilson had been elected to take him home and get him settled in. After begging the keys off House, Wilson opened the door to the apartment and promptly made a face at its state of general uncleanliness. "A maid wouldn't be all that expensive, you know. Plus, you could sell all the junk she'd uncover so you might actually make some money," he said, stepping around clothes and magazines piled on the floor.

House shook his head. "It's my mess, and I'll do what I want with it," he insisted stubbornly. Wilson just rolled his eyes. By this time, House was already settled on the couch, flipping through channels on the TV. "How're you feeling? Do you need some water? Vicodin? A lawyer?" Wilson asked, only half-joking about the latter.

House looked at him quizzically. "You were pretty messed up, I'm assuming someone's going to want to sue," Wilson elaborated.

House looked at him and grinned. "Nope, I've got everything I need," he replied evenly. He gestured at the TV with the remote. "Now can I watch my show, Mom? Please?"

Wilson smiled back warmly. Yup, he was home all right.

And I've got Vicodin do you wanna come over?
I know it's a long drive from Malibu
I got a pocket full of pills and not one lover
And I'm feeling so bad and so good
I don't know what to do...
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